


Where Is Your Pain?

by ERD_Fiction



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Everything Hurts, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, It's Overwatch Of Course Everything Hurts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 16:15:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7852204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ERD_Fiction/pseuds/ERD_Fiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For all the times that Overwatch has asked the motherly medic for comfort, it hits Lena that not once has she asked for support in return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where Is Your Pain?

**Author's Note:**

> It was only a matter of time before I wrote an Overwatch fanfiction.  
> This is the first piece of fanfiction I've written in over a year, so. Yeah.  
> Let's see how much I've improved?
> 
> (It's kind of kind of not a musical except it kind of almost is)

Lena Oxton always knew that there was no way Overwatch was gone for good.

It wasn’t in the system. It wasn’t how Winston installed that “Overwatch Recall” system to fling them all back together. Nor was it how everyone had casually kept tabs on each other, observing from a distance without reaching out and talking.

No. It was after the loss. After Switzerland, after the funeral, after the announcement. It was in the way they said goodbye. How there were a hundred words unspoken, a thousand lives to change, a million tasks to do. It was in their half-hearted farewells and their false promises to keep in touch. It was in the glint in everyone’s eyes--the dying embers to a fire that didn’t want to go out. Lena could see it in everyone. The kindling, still sparking, still hissing. _We aren’t finished here_ , it spat.

Torb was convinced that the recall would never come. But Lena knew from the start. It was just a matter of Winston pressing the button. When the call came, she didn’t ask, “What makes you think this’ll be a good idea?” Instead, she chimed, “What took you so long, love?”

She had expected for things to start slow, for the cavalry to trickle in one at a time, over weeks or months, or even years. As it turns out, she had to race to beat Reinhardt back to base. It didn’t take long after that--within a few days, Angela, Torbjorn, and McCree were bursting into base. Even Genji returned, despite Winston’s confidence that he’d remain in Nepal for a long time before making the journey home. Not only did he arrive in record time, he convinced his mentor to join--a peaceful omnic, a preacher of harmony and balance, the perfect edition to the team.

It took such a short period of time for things to fall back into the routine. Reinhardt’s bellowing voice calling out for them at seven am sharp, Jesse’s hearty Southern recipes, the mission practice runs, the old running jokes, the nights putting on movies and then talking the whole way through. Old habits die hard, Lena believes, so it’s only natural that they fall right back into place. It’s like a reunion of the family--the whole team is back together.

Well. Kind of.

Minus three.

It takes a long time to bring up Ana. Reminiscing over her takes less out of Lena than she thought it would. She was the scar on their upper arm--a wound that had been given the time to heal over. Despite how jagged it was, it was there, and the team was ready to roll up their sleeves and share their battle wounds.

It’s different with Gabriel and Jack. If Ana became a scar, those two men were an open, pulsing wound, trickling blood across your gut and onto the floor no matter how you bandage it up. Before they had been given a proper chance to let the skin seal itself over, they were ripped apart from each other. Overwatch disbanded. No questions, no protests. No time to grieve.

When the names Reyes or Morrison come up in the conversation, someone always manages to change the subject. She finds, despite herself, that she’s more inclined to bite her lip and allow someone else to fill the silence than to prod the others. It’s a wound, one that everyone seemed more inclined to cover and ignore than try to heal.

It’s oddly fitting that Dr. Zieglar would be the one to start patching things up.

As she has been since the day Lena met her, she is gentle but firm. She identifies the source of the pain, and does her best with her patients to work through it as she stops the blood from flowing. She prods, she hints, she goes so far as to bringing up a mission she was on with Reyes decades before the incident. No one seems to want to rip the bandaid off, but Angela is persistent, slowly prying back the edge and exposing the wound.

 _Where is your pain?_ she seemed to ask. The doctor was in, and intended to heal their wounds. _I’ll be watching over you._

It’s a slow recovery, one that will need more than a month’s time to heal from. Lena doesn’t even think they’re making any progress until Reinhardt spits out his coffee one morning and mutters something about how it, “tastes like Jack’s idea of a morning brew.”

That’s when the small stories start coming out. Jesse drawls out short stories about Reyes during his time in Blackwatch. Winston mumbles about how Jack’s favorite reading chair was still sitting where it had been left. Genji mourns over the loss of two brilliant soldiers, and Lena is the one who finally says it through a mouthful of surprising tears: “I still can’t believe they’re really gone.”

Bitterly as they may speak of the fallen, they come to terms with it. The only person who seems to be almost cheerful when talking about Jack and Gabriel is the doctor herself. Just as she hasn’t aged a day since the last time Lena saw her, Angela hasn’t changed a bit. She’s just as friendly, just as warm, the same medic who treated all of her patients like her children until they were out of her care, and beyond that. Her hospitality and tenderness extended far beyond what is expected for bedside manners. She was, and is, a beacon, a being of pure kindness that seemed to light up the world of all that surround her.

Everyone else has grown grim, disillusioned, hardened by the fall of Overwatch. But not Angela “Mercy” Zieglar. She had been their constant, their source of aid, their tourniquet, their recovery, their safety. And she continues to be constant to this day.

Except for one thing.

It wasn’t something Lena noticed immediately. She probably wouldn’t have noticed it if she hadn’t gone to the infirmary on three separate occasions in the past two months. The first one was an honest accident (“Turns out I still ain’t tough enough to swing around Reinhardt’s hammer”). The second time was a stupid mistake (“How was I s’posed to see all those bloody shoe boxes?!”). The third and latest time, she hobbled in sporting a twisted ankle (“I couldn’t let ‘im just beat me! If Jesse had won the race, y’know ‘e’d never let me livit down!”). Angela had chided her for her attitude and her recklessness, as she had done every time the mousy-haired woman came limping through her threshold.

“You really must be careful, Tracer,” she murmurs as she gently wraps up the freckled ankle. “Winning is not worth this pain, is it?”

“If it keeps Jesse from becoming a pain in the bum?” Lena scoffs. “Absolutely.” Despite the medic’s thin smile, she can see that Angela’s holding back laughter.

It’s only when the room falls silent that Lena notices something’s missing. She doesn’t even remember what it is until she’s half asleep in bed.

Angela wasn’t humming while she worked. She hadn’t been humming a single time while she was at the infirmary.

\--

The brunette gave it little thought. It wasn’t as if it was expected of the medic--it was just a hobby, a way to pass time between patients and between treatments. The short and sweet refrains, the light and precise whistling, the soft and soothing humming, was all part of the constant presence that was Mercy. There were nights where Mercy tended to patients from dawn until dusk, soothing their pleads and cries with a lullaby from her native tongue. It didn’t matter if you knew the words or not--it was something calming, something constant, something to distract from the pain. The brunette recalls her terrible fever the first Chirstmas she had joined Overwatch, and how Angela had sung “Silent Night” over and over and over again as she struggled to fall asleep. It was something significant, but so consistent that it took a long time for Lena to place it until it went missing.

Even when she had placed it, she put the thought aside. There were more pressing things to worry about. The resurrection of Overwatch. The grieving they were never permitted. Which simulation she’d run tomorrow, what kind of cookies would she have with her tea tonight. It had almost slipped her mind altogether a week later, days after her ankle had been cleared as “a full recovery.”

At the time, all she could think about was how Torb was going to let her have it if she didn’t find her way back soon.

It almost feels like eons since she’s been to Gibraltar, and it’s going to take longer than that for her to remember her way around. Her pride had led her to decline the map that Winston had provided for her. Now, she regrets that decision deeply. All of the paths seem to give her the same sense of deja vu. She used to know this network on the back of her hand. Now she doesn’t know which veins to follow.

Lena was about to lament the mockery she was due to endure when she found herself at the medic’s bay. Bingo. That’s just the kind of checkpoint she had been hoping for. Immediately brightening, Lena trots right towards it, intending to bolt on by and head straight for the kitchen. She might be a hair late to the meeting, but at least she wouldn’t be late.

Just as she’s passing the door, she hears Mercy speaking inside. It isn’t until she’s skidding to a halt at the end of the hallway that she realizes that she isn’t talking.

Angela is singing.

She pauses, just long enough to confirm that yes, it is Angela, and yes, she is singing. She stays a moment longer to hear the ever-familiar voice again, the light tones of her soprano drifting through the air like snowflakes on a slight wind. She doesn’t recognize the tune, and she can’t make out the lyrics, but it doesn’t make it any less beautiful to hear, the light dusting of the medic's accent drifting through the tune. Lena sighs, a smile stretching across her face. She remembers her visit to the medic bay, the lack of voice, the lack of melody. She hadn’t thought much of it then, and she thinks very little of it now. This wasn’t a breech in routine, and the medic certainly hadn’t lost her voice. She just chose not to sing the other day.

“Phew,” the brunette says out loud. “Almost got myself worked up in a tizzy there--”

The singing stopped abruptly. The flakes in the air seemed to freeze before they fell, frigid and resistant to the wind around it.

Lena stops at this. Something wasn’t right.

It’s only now that she remembers a few nights ago, when the gang had one too many drinks and all joined Jesse in a hearty rendition of “I Love This Bar” before stumbling off to bed. She remembers Angela, nursing her own drink in the corner, her face rose-tinged with wine and laughter. Before the ban on Overwatch, she would leap at the chance to sing along with any tune the boys came up with. Yet that night, she had declined to join in their festivities. If Lena can remember correctly, the blonde even excused herself to go to bed early.

When was the last time Angela turned down karaoke?

The lack of humming. Turning down karaoke. The abrupt pause in the song. Something wasn’t full-on wrong. But that didn’t make it right.

Creeping along the wall on her toes, the brunette slowly makes her way back to the medbay, inching along, her breath shallow and silent. Peeking around the doorframe, she spots Mercy in the middle of the room, frozen, her back to Lena. She’s staring stiffly at the wall to her right, a grim and pale expression on her face. That put the brunette on edge--she can’t recall the last time she had seen such a despairing look on the medic’s face.

Or maybe she’s never seen it at all.

For almost a minute, Angela stands there, her shoulders tense, the grip on the broomstick in her hand tight. At last, she rolls her shoulders and sighs, relaxing. Lena ducks behind the doorway again as the medic turns towards her, biting her bottom lip in anticipation. The sound of a broom sweeping across the floor fills the silence.

And then, her voice.

“ _It is hard to keep a habit,_ ” Angela sings through her chore.

“ _When you rely on routine,_

 _And your team is by your side…_ ”

Lena blinks, keeping herself hidden from sight. She’s never heard the medic sing this song before. Usually, she sings nursery songs in her native tongue, or hum the tunes she overhears on the radio.

The sweeping continues. So does the song.

“ _You must not make a habit,_

_Unless you intend to keep it_

_When there’s no place left to hide…_ ”

It wasn’t a sad song, necessarily. If anything, the woman with the pale blonde hair sounds...bitter. Her words are sweet, and they continue to swirl around like snow, but they leave an aftertaste in the brunette’s mouth that she swallows to rid herself of.

“ _And so I cannot make a habit,_ ” Angela continues, “ _Of singing my angels to sleep,_

 _As my mother taught me to._ ”

Lena dares to slip closer to the threshold, glancing around the corner. There is a soft smile on the medic’s face as she sweeps the dust and dirt into a small pan, carrying it over to the trash and tossing the contents in. Despite her words, there is a soft smile on her face, and a lost look in her eyes.

Remembering, perhaps.

“ _I cannot share the lullaby_

_She sang to me at night_

_As we gazed upon the moon…”_

Angela wraps her arms around the broom handle, gazing up at the ceiling. Lena can only stare with wide eyes, slowly slipping more and more into the doorway. The medic closes her eyes with a wider smile as she strides back to the broom closet.

“ _I only sing while they are sleeping,_ ” she chimes, a slight skip in her step.

“ _I sing where they cannot hear_

 _I sing when the night is old…_ ”

She spins around with the broom, dancing with her imitation partner as she continues to sing. The smile spreads across her face, and the freckled woman watching her can’t help but smile too. For the moment, at least, the song ceases being so bitter.

“ _I sing when the breeze_

 _Takes all my breath away,_ ” the medic continues, twirling the broom back into the closet.

“ _I sing when the sun is cold._ ” The broom lands back in its place with a clatter, but not without knocking over a stack of towels and sheets. Angela jumps back with wide eyes, only to laugh at her own clumsiness. Lena has to bite her lip again to keep herself from giggling. The melody stops for a few moments as the medic focuses on gathering up the towels, grinning easily to herself. Lena ducks back into her hiding spot when Angela turns towards the doorway, debating briefly whether she should leave or not. It didn't seem like the song would start up again. She was certainly late now, and the longer she waited, the more she was prolonging the inevitable lecture that awaited her.

She is turning to leave when Angela starts again.

“ _For I cannot make a habit_

_Of harmless melodies_

_For if I lapsed without a song…_ ”

There is a pause. Lena dares to peek her head around the corner again, finding Angela in the middle of the room, folding the towels into a small, neat pile. The smile has fallen off her face, and the sweet bitterness returns to her voice.

“ _They would notice, they would hear it,_ ” she murmurs, pausing from her folding.

“ _They would learn indeed to fear it,_

 _They would know something is wrong…_ ”

Angela sets the sheet down half folded, staring at her hands. For the first time since she’s met the medic, Lena notices how aged she appears. Her face may appear youthful and wrinkle free, and her hair lacked even a trace of gray. But despite her efforts to conceal them, the bags are still visible under her eyes and the lines that crease her forehead are a testament to many stressful and sleepless night. Her eyes are hollow with a stare that has seen a dozen lifetimes.

It hits Lena that she has never once seen Angela cry.

It hits Lena that she has never once seen Angela grieve.

For all the times that Overwatch has asked the motherly medic for comfort, it hits Lena that not once has she asked for support in return.

There is a long pause in the verses, as Angela raises her hands to her chest.

“ _For if I sang myself to silence,_

_They would ask, “Angela_

_What ails you today?”_ ”

The medic pauses, her gaze turning to the window. The sun is just starting to set over the base. At first, Lena believes that Angela has finished.

After a moment, the woman whose age is far beyond her own years lets out the smallest of sighs, clutching her hands in front of her chest.

“ _Would they believe me_

_If I said Amari,_

_Morrison, or Reyes?_ ”

A weight forms, grows, and drops in Lena’s stomach, and she doesn’t notice how tightly she is gripping the frame of the threshold until she lets go, bolting through the doorway.

The medic notices right away. The sheet she had resumed folding drops as she jumps, startled and frightened by the sudden presence. Lena can see the tears welled up in the loving woman’s eyes, which only makes her stomach drop more. The weight falls through the floor entirely when Angela reaches up, wipes her eyes...and smiles.

“Tracer…!” she exclaims, her face straining with the effort to keep up her grin. “I did not see you there…!” She lets out a small laugh. “Is everything alright?”

Lena bites her bottom lip, her fists clenching and unclenching by her side. The smile keeps faltering on Angela’s face and yet she insists on keeping it up.

“Something ails you,” she offers, lifting a hand for the brunette, only to drop it as she notices how it trembles. She steps forward. She steps forward, and there are tears still in her eyes but she blinks them away as her gaze sweeps up and down the brunette, trying to find where she is hurt.

She dares to ask.

“Where is your pain?”

That breaks Lena.

“Where is yours?!” she snaps.

Angela freezes in place, the smile wiping off. The little color that had reappeared in her face immediately drains. Silence settles in the room, as Lena’s fists shake by her side and her teeth dig into her lip so harshly that she almost breaks the skin. Angela takes a step back and breaks her gaze, taking a deep breath, trying to compose herself.

“I,” she stares, but pauses as her voice cracks. She shakes her head with an incredibly fake laugh. “I have no idea what you are talking abo--”

She is cut off as Lena lunges forward and throws her arms around the medic, her arms tightening around the medic as she attempts to push away. She buries her head on Angela’s shoulder, fighting back her own tears.

“Angela,” she murmurs, her voice tight. “I miss them, too.”

It takes a moment for her words to sink in.

All at once, the woman in her arms shatters. Arms trembling, she clings to the brunette, burying her head in her shoulder. Lena can hear the sob building up before it breaks out, feel the tears hitting the back of her shirt before they land. As her own tears cross her freckled face, she reaches up and strokes the top of the older woman’s head. Angela shakes so much in her arms that Lena fears her legs might give out.

“Lena…!” Her voice is so hoarse and weak that it breaks the brunette’s heart. “O-Oh I am sorry, Lena!”

“Shhh, love…” Lena murmurs, smoothing her hand over locks of pale blonde hair as decades of grief come crashing over the medic all at once. “S’alright, dear.” Lena’s own throat tightens as her own sobs build up in her throat. She bites her lip again, ignoring the ache as she holds them back. For once, it is Angela’s turn to grieve.

“Ana...Gabriel...and Jack…!” When Lena urges Angela to the ground, her legs buckle underneath her and she lands in a heap of sobs and tears, still clinging to the brunette with arms so tight that Lena is having trouble breathing.

“I know, I know, love.”

She pulls her face back and unwraps one of her arms, gently lifting the medic’s chin to face her. She swallows hard at the sight--the red eyes, the constant stream of tears, the sheer age that appears on the beautiful woman’s face. Lena can’t help the tightness in her own voice, but she continues nonetheless.

“Angela, you know we’re ‘ere for you.” She reaches up with her other hand and gently cups the other woman’s chin. “Right, all of us are ‘ere for you. And no matter what, we love you, we love you, and we’re ‘ere for you, for whatevuh you need.”

With a quivering lip, the medic brings up her hand and places it over Lena’s, her fingers trembling weakly. She is able to hold the brunette’s gaze for all of a minute before she bites her own lip and buries her face in Lena’s shoulder again, letting out a heart-wrenching wail.

_Would they believe me_

_If I said Amari,_

_Morrison, or Reyes?_

As Lena cradles Angela in her arms, she finds it all too easy to believe.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, that was sad. :')
> 
> The lyrics were written by me. I can only hope that the rhythm carried over. I came up with a few of the verses one day while I was cleaning to myself, and the concept built itself up from there.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Lemme know whatcha think!
> 
> \--EDYM


End file.
